


Sick days

by sweetlikesugar



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Emetophobia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not Beta Read, Panic Attacks, Sick Character, Sickfic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-06 12:37:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20507123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetlikesugar/pseuds/sweetlikesugar
Summary: Andrew watches him from the goal, face completely neutral if not for the slightest downward tilt of his lips.Kevin, against all common sense, pushes himself even harder.





	Sick days

**Author's Note:**

> i'm serious about this vomit warning, it's more detailed than necessary

He wakes up feeling like shit, head pulsing like Eden’s Twilight on a Friday night, mouth tasting like stale hangover and roadkill. He sniffs, frowning at the blocked nose. 

Sitting up takes ages and it makes his headache worse. Black spots dance around his vision. He stumbles into the bathroom, almost falling over on the way and grips the sink tightly, clenching his jaw to ride out nausea. It doesn’t work, and he gags on a burp, spitting out mucus and bile, yellowish splat on white porcelain.

The trek to the locker room is unreasonably tiring. The good thing about Kevin always waking up early for practice is that no one sees him as he’s trying to gulp air through a tight throat, waiting for his heart to stop hammering in his chest like a caged hummingbird. He puts on his gear like an armor, sealing away pallid skin and forcing down the sickness.

He jogs out on the pitch and lets his mind drift, getting himself into the zone during the first lap around the court. His muscle memory kicks in and he starts warming up halfway through the second lap. His lungs still feel constricted, chest heavy and knees weak, but Kevin Day is nothing if thoroughly masochistic when it comes to training.

* * *

Andrew isn’t fucking stupid. He knows Kevin. He’s been watching the taller man as he warmed up, white-lipped and grey-faced, breathing so shallow his chest is barely moving. 

If Kevin wants to pretend he’s fine then so be it. It’s always been Andrew’s job to collect the pieces when the other boy inevitably falls apart in the middle of the court.

* * *

Kevin can feel Andrew’s glare between his shoulder blades the whole duration of the drills. He’s too focused on not fainting to do anything about it.

He rolls his jaw and squints against the light, looking hopefully more pissed off than sick.

“Jesus Christ, man” Nicky chuckles. “What’s with the glaring?”.

“Just remembering how incompetent you are, Hemmick” he spits, rolling his eyes, sending a burst of sharp pain through his headache muddled brain.

Nicky laughs, bright and loud, and jogs away. 

The rest of the practice is just suicides, and Kevin feels like he’s trying to cheat death every time he breathes. He’s drenched in sweat, dripping fucking waterfalls despite the persistent bone-deep chill radiating from his bones through his entire body, trying his hardest not to look like he’s suffocating, failing to get enough air through his parched throat.

Andrew watches him from the goal, face completely neutral if not for the slightest downward tilt of his lips.

Kevin, against all common sense, pushes himself even harder.

* * *

  
  


He stumbles back into the locker room like a drunk, head and eyes hurting from the white glare of artificial ceiling lights. He can barely see through his swimming vision and everything feels like a horrible trip, too loud and too intense.

He all but collapses on the tiled floor, sweat-soaked back glued to the freezing metal of the lockers. He struggles to get out of his gloves, hands numb and shaking. He paws at the straps uselessly until he manages to undo them with his teeth, ripping the gloves off. His hands are ice cold, nails tinted purplish-blue. He presses his palm against his chest, feeling his heart thrashing and kicking between his ribs.

His breath comes out in pants and groans. He can’t remember when he shut his eyes but he can’t force them open, as if they’re glued shut. It makes his head spin even more.

It feels like dying.

Saliva builds in his mouth and he tries to swallow it, unsuccessfully. It drips down his chin to the floor in thin viscous strings. His abdomen spasms, once, twice, three times, and he empties his stomach with a pained whimper, a slew of gastric juice burning his throat as it spills on the tiles in a yellowish puddle. It dribbles through his nose and the putrid smell of it sends Kevin into another fit of sickness, the wet sound of vomit hitting the already wet floor loud and disgusting.

He hears footsteps, but it sounds muffled like there’s water in his ears.

“Fucking Christ, Kevin”.

He whimpers, stomach contracting painfully once again. He dry heaves and it sends him into another round of hyperventilating.

The person crouches next to him, close enough for Kevin to feel their presence but far enough that he doesn’t feel caged. 

He chokes on a sob, the last stream of bile coming out of his nose.

“It will pass,” they say, flat and quiet. “You’ve had panic attacks before. You know you’ll be alright”.

Kevin shakes his head, rocking slightly in place.

They take Kevin’s shaking hand and put it on their chest. Kevin fists the fabric of their jersey.

“Breathe with me” they take an exaggerated breath so that Kevin can feel their chest rise.

He does his best to copy it, but his breath comes out choppy.

“Good. Do it again”.

It feels like ages until Kevin can suck in a lungful of air. He is yet to stop shaking.

All the sensations slam into him at once. 

He’s suddenly hyper-aware of his surroundings. The sweat drying on his back making his clothes fuse to his skin. The filthy layer of spit and bile coating his face, neck and the front of his shirt. His hands, cold and trembling. The pool of puke between his legs, running between cracks in the tiled floor. The buzzing of the artificial lights above him.

He looks to the side, right at Andrew.

“Done?” Andrew’s unwavering calm soothes Kevin’s rattled psyche.

He sniffs, coughs and runs his tongue over his teeth. He spits on the floor, wipes his face on his shoulder and shrugs.

Andrew runs his hand through Kevin’s sweat-soaked hair, slicking them back. His palm lingers on Kevin’s forehead and then he resumes the soothing motion. He pauses to thumb away moisture under Kevin’s eyes.

“Next time you even consider training through a fucking fever, I’ll chain you to the bench until you’re fifty”.

“Kinky” Kevin chuckles hoarsely. “It could be worse”.

Andrew looks down on the puddle of vomit and back up at Kevin, face so thoroughly unimpressed that the taller boy snorts.

They sit until Kevin can feel his legs again, and then they wait until he can stand unassisted. He drags himself to the shower, standing under the scalding spray until he feels human again. 

His left hand stays numb much longer than his right.

* * *

He’s huddled under a copious amount of blankets, stomach full of soup and medicine with strict orders of bed rest. Abby was this close to just driving Kevin to the hospital but was appeased with Andrew swearing to keep Kevin in bed by all means possible. 

With his boyfriend standing guard at his bed like Cerberus at the gates of hell, Kevin can’t so much as fucking twitch without Andrew glaring at him.

He sighs, curling in on himself, watching Andrew submit the last of his essay. His headache is slowly phasing out, replaced by a languid buzz of exhaustion and medicine.

He must’ve dozed off, because next time he opens his eyes, Andrew is trying to force him to uncurl from his tight coil.

“You can’t sleep like that” the blond murmurs, noticing Kevin is awake. “Your stomach will cramp”.

Kevin groans, but lets himself be rearranged with soft tugs and gentle prods until his head is burrowed in the thick fabric of Andrew’s sweatshirt, smelling like laundry detergent and aired out spicy cologne. He drapes his arm over Andrew’s waist and Andrew hooks his leg behind Kevin’s thigh. 

“I’m so fucking sweaty” he complains. 

“Tough shit” Andrew shrugs one shoulder, but scratches at Kevin’s scalp softly. His unoccupied hand snakes under Kevin’s hoodie and splays over his warm, damp back, feeling it rise and fall steadily as he breathes.

Kevin absently wonders how Andrew can stand this temperature. Kevin is already running hotter than usual and he’s damn near suffocating under all these blankets.

He’s on the verge of sleep when he feels Andrew’s hand tighten slightly in his hair.

“Better now?”.

Kevin does his best to give a coherent answer.

“I will be”.

Andrew sighs and watches Kevin dig his forehead into his clavicle. The taller man falls asleep, face slack and relaxed.

_ Will be  _ will have to do for now.

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> leave a comment or kudos if you liked it! hit me up on [ tumblr ](https://mindlesslittlefreak.tumblr.com) if you wanna talk


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